


all your rage in the dying light

by unendingexhaustion



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Gen, Major Character Injury, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Self-Destruction, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:47:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unendingexhaustion/pseuds/unendingexhaustion
Summary: The Good Hunter's methods of venting his frustration are, perhaps, not the best.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	all your rage in the dying light

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a fugue state like a year ago so....enjoy? And as always: no gods no kings no proofreaders

The Good Hunter of Yharnam was in an absolutely foul mood, and when a Hunter is in a snit it’s best to stay well away. Unfortunately, the citizens of Central Yharnam did not appear to have gotten that particular memo.

“Gods. Bloody. DAMN IT!” 

With a snarl, he ripped his fist out of the guts of yet another huntsman. It came free with a sickening slurp, and by the time the body hit the ground he’d already turned and begun marching straight toward the unlucky group gathered at the base of a set of dilapidated stairs. They milled aimlessly about, muttering amongst themselves and blissfully unaware. A vicious snarl and the screech of metal on stone was all the warning they got before the filthy serrated teeth of a saw cleaver tore through them like wet paper. Blood spurted, viscera spilled, and a furious Hunter stalked onward, still unsatisfied by the carnage he’d caused. His mind churned, his own deaths blending into a nightmare of blood inside his skull. _Fucking cursed Chalice Dungeons!_

Even thinking of what went on down there made his teeth grind. It had been utterly humiliating. Up here, though? Here, _he_ was the nightmare! _He_ was the thing to be afraid of! A brief thrill of concern ran through him at his own rabid anger, but he shoved it down and continued on. He left the slaughterhouse he’d made of Central Yharnam behind, taking the curved stairs to Oedon Chapel two at a time. There was more prey to hunt here. The raging bloodlust warred with white-hot fury in his veins, begging him to hunt, to kill, to rend _rip slaughter **ruin**!_ and it rolled off him in heavy, nearly-tangible waves. The white-faced Church Servants stood no chance, the Giants hamstrung and gutted. He hunted and he _burned_ , the lead-heavy energy of it all boiling up his throat and threatening to spill, to add a dripping trail of hate to his gore-soaked footprints. The few patrolling huntsman fell as well, their gurgling final breaths imitated with a mocking lilt as they died. For a brief moment, he thought of the burnt-out ruins of Old Yharnam, a fully stocked hunting ground crawling with beasts...but no. He’d sworn an oath to Djura. Even so, turning away from the passage down was nearly physically painful. Up past the Cathedral he went, nearly running. The writhing horrors of the woods, with their sickles and their ice-sharp screams? Now they would make excellent prey. He’d sworn no oath to spare the crones of Hemwick either! He was grinning now beneath the mask, a wide and maddened thing, and after a second of hesitation he ripped it down. 

The woods were, indeed, excellent. Though they were a greater challenge than Central Yharnam and Cathedral Ward combined, the Hunter wove through the trees like a poisonous smoke. Supernatural strength and speed made him a force to be reckoned with up here under the sky, and he reveled in it as fire licked at the corpses of the dogs and riflemen who’d dared oppose him. The slightly slimy gems he’d ripped from the cores of the horrors were swiftly pocketed, and with a cracked and ugly howl he dropped from the ledge and began to hack his way through the horde of cackling hags. He was _alive_ here, dodging firebombs and snapping teeth and red-hot spears. It was a symphony! Explosions and screaming and the wet tearing of flesh, punctuated by the thunderous boom of his rifle, and the blood that caught the edges of his mouth was sweet as nectar. 

A Hunter is more than a man. Stronger, stranger, faster, sharper. Even so, the toxic euphoria of the Hunt can only push one’s body so far before it gives out. It steadily began to show as the Hunter made his way deeper into Hemwick, his muscles shaking under the strain of movement. Still he staggered onwards, as if tugged by invisible strings. His own blood began to mingle with the mess coating him as his dodges grew sloppier, the nicks and bruises worsening into gashes and cracked bones. Heavy blows sent him staggering, the mutilated dogs gouged into him with both teeth and blades. His usual caution gone, he threw himself into battle with no regard for the odds. The saw cleaver swung in an unsteady grasp, heedless of the weapons shredding his flesh as he messily carved through the swarm of foes. Distracted by close combat, his dulled mind failed to notice the firebomb arcing through. One can only imagine the last moments of its thrower. What did she think, as a grinning madman staggered through the flames to wrap his dripping hands around her throat? 

Moments later, a crash and a sickening crunch announced that the Good Hunter had forgotten about the existence of stairs, instead choosing to topple unsteadily off the platform and plummet twenty feet into a pile of rotting crates. A blood vial jabbed sloppily into his thigh melded the crooked shards of shattered bone into something approximating whole, and he staggered upright. He was flagging in earnest now, the violent pulsing energy of blood-madness beginning to drip from his veins onto the dirt below. The manic grin was fading, his chest aching with every heaving breath, but the low groans of the axe-wielding executioners patrolling outside tugged him into movement anyway. His usual finesse was nowhere to be seen as he fought them, perfectly timed attacks and dodges traded for wide gunshots, sloppy swings, and desperate scrabbling for distance. His teeth bared in a bloodstained grimace, a half-formed thought drifted through the Hunter’s mind. _Almost done. Almost done. When there’s nothing left alive I’ll finally rest._

Dogs' teeth and sickles and firebombs and the mad cackling laughter of hags. A low groan, followed by a sharp snap and a high, brittle scream. The fact that the scream had been his own barely registered through the haze in the Hunter’s mind. It was done. The corpse of the last executioner slowly toppled backwards and landed with a heavy metallic clang. A lantern. He needed a lantern. The dream, the Doll. His saw cleaver gave an ominous creak as he used it to push himself upright, the scored and battered blade threatening to snap under his weight. The few feet to the door of the building where the Witch of Hemwick had once made their lair felt like miles. The wet stone walls provided a welcome support as he half-staggered, half fell down the stairs and slid to a sitting position at the bottom. There! In the middle of the room, the welcome purple glow of a Dream-linked lantern. The madness had faded fully now, and the eldritch determination that had pushed him to slaughter every living thing from Iosefka’s clinic to this very lantern was slowly draining away like pus from a wound. Salvation from this wretched world was only a few steps away, but it might as well have been unreachable. Pain like lightning ripped through his body when he tried to stand, drawing a choked whimper from his raw and aching throat. He toppled forward into the dirt, and despite the screaming of his muscles, began to drag himself towards the lantern. An agonizing eternity that was more than likely just a few minutes saw him collapse at the base of the lantern, and as his vision went black all he could feel was relief. 

The Plain Doll was not bored. How could she be, when she had no other experiences with which to compare? Even so, it was a routine sort of life that she led, after all. Tend the Hunters, tend to Gherman, tend to the Little Ones, and if none of them needed her? Simply wait. Perhaps she would close her eyes for a moment. She did not need to sleep, but it was still a pleasant experience. As she thought, the telltale shimmering hiss of the Hunter’s return reached her ears. She stood, turning.

“Welcome home, Good Hunter. Wh-” She paused in the midst of her customary greeting. Hunters usually returned to the dream somewhat worse for wear but upright, but this one most certainly was not. He was facedown on the cobblestone pathway, charred and battered and oozing blood from countless wounds, and while her experience was somewhat limited, the Doll was fairly certain human limbs were not supposed to bend in that particular direction. She stood, straightening her skirts with a sigh. She may not have been bored, per se, but she’d much rather be not-bored than see one of her charges in such a terrible state. If her porcelain brow could move, it would have been furrowed in concern.

“Oh, my dear Hunter. Please wait here.” 

Unbeknownst to most, a folding cot was hidden behind the storage bin in the Hunter’s Dream. The Dream was one of the few safe places a Hunter could rest, though most who passed through were too focused on the Hunt to even ask, and the cot had sat unused for...well, quite a long time. Now, the Doll reflected, the old thing would finally see some use. Her poor Hunter had obviously pushed himself too hard. He’d been in quite the temper last time he passed through too! Perhaps he would like to talk about it once he’d recovered. She finished making up the cot, gave the covers a final pat, and headed back outside to retrieve her patient. Nothing had changed, save for the steady spread of blood beneath him. A moment of concentration from the Doll saw a soothing white light coalesce around his body, and when it dissipated the evidence of his injuries had vanished completely. The blood was gone, his clothes were mended...even the burnt ends of his hair had returned to their original sleekness. Satisfied with her handiwork, she bent down and scooped the unconscious Hunter into her arms. How lucky, she thought, that Gherman made me so much taller than most! Carrying a man as tall as the Hunter was still somewhat awkward, but the stairs from the garden were short enough that it didn’t matter. Once her charge was properly arranged and tucked in, she tugged one of the Dream’s dusty chairs over to the fireplace, picked up one of the many scattered books, and began to read. It was her duty to care for the Hunter, after all, and she would not let him wake alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by True Bloodborne Events: got frustrated at a chalice boss, went back upstairs, and murdered literally everything that moved until the game crashed at Hemwick. 'Twas fun for me, not so much for my poor hunter.


End file.
